


Bad Dreams

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Meta, it was all a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair has a bad dream. (A reactionary piece to the Dragon Age comics.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is a response to my continued disappointment of the Dragon Age comics The Silent Grove, Those Who Speak, and more recently, Until We Sleep. This is a palate cleanser for the series finally wrapping itself up and thus securing it as "the most pointless tie-in comics ever".

It’s not uncommon for him to wake up in the middle of the night, sweat drenching his brow as his body shakes from night terrors.

In fact, it’s  _unbelievably_  common and she’s grown to expect it.

So when he wakes before dawn breaks with a yelp, rousing her along with him, Anora simply remains lying on her side facing away from him, waiting for the king to take his leave and walk around the castle to clear his head.

However, Alistair remains in bed minutes longer than he usually does, which causes her to turn over and look at him, brows raised with curiosity as well as concern.

“Another nightmare?”

“No, just a bad dream.” He rakes his hand through his hair, and from the relieved tone in his voice at her question, it’s obvious this is a dream he wants to talk about. Anora sits up, resting her back against the headboard, lacing her fingers over her stomach.

“Is there a difference?”

“Well…yes, there is actually.” He holds his hands out, looking at his palms before rubbing his arm. It’s still dark, but they’re close enough where she can see him looking at her. “See, a nightmare is…well…a nightmare. Monsters chomping at your leg, ghouls stealing your favourite wheel of cheese—” (there’s an unamused groan on Anora’s part at that) “—that sort of thing. This, on the other hand…was, well, a  _bad_  dream. In the sense that it was  _bad_ , terrible even. I wish I woke up  _before_  it ended, that’s how bad it was.”

Anora’s quiet for a moment, having sunk back into her plush pillow as Alistair danced around his vague explanation.

Her silence prompts him to continue to fill it.

“It really  _was_  bad, I swear. Something about running off to find Maric, and in the end it just…amounted to nothing.” He chews his lip and furrows his brow. “No, wait, it amounted to something…I felt  _sorry_  for myself. As though this adventure this ‘dream me’ took had little to no purpose other than to make me feel  _sorry_  for myself.”

His wife snorts and rolls her eyes, and he gives her a funny look.

“Anora, I’m being serious here. It’s as though whatever crafted this dream didn’t know what it was doing with me…heck, it was as though ‘dream me’  _wasn’t_  me and…get this—” he leans in closer, lowering his voice even more to a hushed whisper, “‘dream me’ was a ginger.”

“Alistair we both know you’re not a ginger.”

“I know! Right?  _Exactly_. Don’t know what was going on there. Not a ginger. That would only add insult to injury. A bastard  _and_  a ginger, how terribly unwanted.”

There’s a sarcastic laugh on his wife’s part, and thinking him finished with his story she turns over to go back to bed, but a warm large hand comes to rest on her shoulder, stopping her.

“If I ever did leave for some pointless adventure, you’d be here holding down fort, right?”

“I hold everything together even  _while_  you’re here, husband.”

“Hah, funny.” He removes his hand and Anora settles back down. She’s about to drift back off to bed when he continues, and she grunts in annoyance.

“You don’t feel sorry for me, right? I’m not your ‘poor widdle Alibear’, am I?”

“ _Maker_  no.”

“Good.” He shifts in his spot on the bed, obviously satisfied with her response. Her eyes flutter shut once more and  _again_  he interrupts her attempts at sleep.

“You know, if you ever  _do_  feel sorry for me—”

“Alistair you are a grown man, not a child. You do not need to be coddled. If there’s anyone to feel sorry for it’s the tired old wife who has a chatty husband preventing her from going to bed.”

He laughs, shifting to plant a sloppy wet kiss at her neck, and while she mumbles in an annoyed manner into her pillow she smiles lightly all the same. She moves her head to speak clearly as he settles himself back to go to sleep.

“Let’s hope for your sake there are no more dreams like that.”


End file.
